


How-to with the Marauders

by staygentle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Advice, F/M, Friendship, Gen, How-to, Humor, M/M, Some Romance, good vibes, just banter, shameless one-liners, witty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 13:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5165726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staygentle/pseuds/staygentle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. When strangulation is involved, don't be a hero 2. In firewhiskey we trust 3. Remember, pranking is an art and you're an artist. 4. Who are we kidding,they're not qualified to give advice...</p><p>The marauders give tips on how to survive their lives, with showmanship and only minor bruising!</p>
            </blockquote>





	How-to with the Marauders

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter is dedicated to a veeeeery old friend I made on fanfiction.net a few years ago (I feel like I should say MANY years ago, it feels so long), Lightningscarpotter. I hope it makes you laugh and that you enjoy reading it, if you ever find this! Honestly, thank you for sticking around Lightning.  
> -  
> A 16 year old Sirius's tips on how to survive a Most Noble House of Black family reunion. Without getting stabbed in the thigh with a fork by an offended aunt. (This is actually more HOW to get stabbed in the thigh by an offended aunt, he's very confrontational.)

     1. Dress to distress.

Sirius distorted his face, his mouth agape, his fingers scrabbling at the bottom lid of his left eye. The kohl pencil shook slightly as he finished lining it; caking on the black make-up and ensuring a wicked smudge for later on in the evening, like his eyes were blooming with fake bruises. _Ghoul make up 101, with Sirius the Foul and Fabulous,_ he thought to himself, before snorting at his own joke.

After wiping away his laughter induced tears, he smacked down his eyeliner. He smirked like a vampire bat and wiggled his eyebrows at his reflection- it was a Mexican wave of surprisingly agile brow-hair.

‘My only regret,’ he announced grandly, straightening up and looking at his face from every angle, at his killer cheekbones, slightly square jaw and the overall, deceptively soulful structure of his face, ‘Is that I didn’t spring for the body glitter.’

He was mainly addressing the remains of what seemed to be a teen-boy hygiene binge. Shriveled up and crusted toothpaste tubes, bright cherry red canisters of “Mr. Malicious’ body spray for Wizards,” (the name made Sirius cackle) and petals of dried up soap, littered both the floor and the black marble basin top. He waltzed out of the bathroom, stretching and arching his back in a body quaking yawn. He never did get enough sleep when he was “home”.

‘That’s right, Wulburga _darling rose_ , put your left over portraits in the boy’s room. He’ll love listening to great aunt Whatsit screaming at all hours, it’ll be like a lullaby. He’ll sleep like a baby with chronic night terrors. Will the nightmares bother him, you ask? Of _course_ not! He’s a Black, he likes them. Oh, and wouldn’t it be _utterly delicious_ of us, to put his room _right next_ to that supremely obnoxious, cursed wardrobe? Oh you know it, darling, the one with the robes inside that _try to strangle you_ …’ he ranted to himself, gesturing like he thought his father would, as he got on his knees and searched for clothing (his wardrobe being his bedroom floor). As much as he’d love to go to the Black family reunion/his yearly fun-eral, in only a pair of boxers with the words “magic mister” scrawled across his bottom in cursive, he didn’t feel like being strangled with his mother’s pearl purse strap (…again).

‘Now, the cursed robes I don’t much mind,’ Sirius continued as he fished out a pair of muggle jeans from under his bed and inspected them. ‘Death by fashion is the only way I fancy myself going.’ He poked a finger through a tiny hole in the thigh, wiggling it around before absentmindedly, with a heart-stopping, decisive _riiiip_ , making it bigger. ‘I’ll be the wizarding world’s first fashion victim.’ At this, he let out a bark of laughter and tossed the jeans aside.

 _'Are you talking to yourself again? Poor mudblood lover’s lonely is he? You really are a bad piece of charm work. If you were_ my _son-'_

‘Shut up aunt Whatsit, you and I both know I’d rather swallow my own head than be your son. It’s bad enough being a distant nephew, but _here we are_.’ Sirius snapped, turning sullen and annoyed as soon as Aunt Whoever, the new portrait in his life, commented.

He popped up and leaned on the side of his enormous four-poster bed. ‘I can’t find a sock that _doesn’t_ match this one, why on earth do all my socks match? This is an international tragedy.’ He muttered, expressive eyebrows scrunching together to match a testy frown.

' _Try checking under the dresser, you lazy lump of lard._ '

He crawled across a mountain range of crumpled shirts and boxers and stuck his arm (rather bravely, he thought) under his claw footed dresser (which had been known to bite in the past) and fished out a grey sock with a wand spark pattern. It was awful. Common. Tacky.

‘Perfect! Cheers, Whatsit.’ He winked at her, effortless and impertinent, sharp canine tooth flashing in the half-smirk he shot her.

Inside the portrait, a bony woman sniffed and opened her fan with one haughty movement.

Sirius pulled on a pair of black, ripped trousers and a shirt Mrs. Potter helped him find when he last stayed with James. It was black and had a pattern of gold and silver safety pins. He buttoned it in the middle, but left it so his navel was only just showing and he didn’t even bother with the top buttons.

' _Those socks reek of pre-pubescent blood traitor stench. Your mother will see her lunch again as soon as she sees you… dressing like a mudblood, I never! she’ll have you strung up by those putrid socks-_ '

He pulled an obscene hand gesture up at the portrait, which made his aunt gasp and begin fluttering her fan very quickly, a pale pink paint blur. She often did that- Sirius suspected it was an attempt to “shoo away his juvenile germs”.He stomped over to her and leaned in close, smirking, like he was either about to tell her a tender secret or knee her in her corseted non-existent stomach.

'Listen here old hag,' he started pleasantly, dangerously. 'Stop pretending you can smell, you’re water-stained canvas with a touch of mildew and bitterness that should have died when you did. Say that slur again and I’ll scrape off your nose with a paint-knife. Then, you won’t have to worry about my teenage B.O and we’ll both be bloody happy.'

Her mouth fell open, and she gaped at him like he’d just flashed the Queen and when she was done ogling him, her face contorted, torn between horrified, offended and kind of awed. Trash talk in his family earned you a small amount of twisted respect- but he had to hand it to her, her insults were really creative. He was almost slightly hurt. Almost.

Aunt what’s-is-name had been put up in his room by his mother while he was away at Hogwarts. He knew that she was there to spy on him and every time he left the room, he imagined her darting out of her portrait and reporting to the screeching terror herself, who had another painting in her room. At this thought, he forgave himself for being cruel. Finally, he loaded his fingers with rings and strung a short necklace he’d made out of thick black string and an old moon charm around his neck. For good measure, he sank his hands into his thick hair and ruffled it as much as possible. He looked sleepless, moody, every bit the rebellious teenager he was.

'WE’RE GOING, SIRIUS. _NOW._ DON’T MAKE ME COME AND –'

'OH FOR MERLIN’S- COMING, MOTHER.' Sirius yelled back, trying his best not to spit poison at her. He was still weary of that purse strap.

     2. _When strangulation is involved, don’t be a hero._

Sirius’ mother, upon seeing his chosen outfit, practically spat fire at him and immediately reached for her purse- but before she could properly get the pearls around his throat, Regulus leapt into the fray and dragged Sirius back up the stairs. He was forced to change into one of his father’s old dress robes; it had the Black family crest sewn on the breast pocket with silver thread and parts of the shirt and robe were beaded with real rubies, so in places he looked as if he were bleeding.

He was extremely grateful when he was allowed to use the floo network to get to the venue, rather than side-along apparate with his- somewhat murderous- mother. But still, he prickled with irritation. Hot, sticky anger and shame welled up in the back of his throat, burning, bubbling, like venom. He felt five years old again, small and naïve and swallowed alive by the dress robes he was forced into. Would it kill his mother to hate him more gently?

He swallowed aggressively and bit the inside of his cheeks, hard.

3\. Judge everyone and everything; it’s the Black family way.

 _And I thought I looked undead,_ Sirius thought scathingly, buttoning his shirt as he walked into the cavernous ballroom the Black Family had bought specifically for the reunion and spying all his “family members”. A lot of them were powdery, stuck up old people wearing traditional dress robes. The giant frills made them all look like decorative lizards and large, feathery vultures. _Bigots never die._

'Regulus, what would I have done if you weren’t there to save my sorry arse? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you _liked_ me.' Sirius commented dryly as he came up behind his brother, loosening his tie and untucking his shirt in feeble rebellion.

His brother didn’t bother to rescue him often; in fact it was so rare an occurrence, that Sirius’ felt completely ignored by Regulus, which he did not appreciate. As a result, his pranks on his brother increased in immaturity whenever the two were together. Just last night, Sirius found himself sticking Regulus’ shoes to the ceiling of his room while Regulus was playing Wizard Chess with their father in the library- this, he felt, demonstrated a new low in his pranking career.

Regulus flinched, seemingly stunned Sirius had even addressed him.

'Well, brother, if you dress like that what do you expect?' he replied, fidgeting and avoiding eye contact.

'Excuse me, but thanks to _mumsie_ I can hold my breath for up to two minutes. How dare you blame me for what that beastly woman does to me... or do you think that’s how the Blacks bond? Remember when dearest _Papa_ tripped- oh wait, I meant pushed- me at the top of the stairs, after I told him I was proud to be a Gryffindor? All in good fun! I love concussions. You know what? You wait here and I’ll get the throwing knives!'

Regulus opened his mouth to reply, closed it, then opened it again and closed it- this continued for a substantial amount of time- Sirius thought he looked a bit like a gothic goldfish. It was no use. Regulus couldn’t reply. Eventually, he just shut his mouth and gave Sirius an unreadable look. If it was apologetic, Sirius didn’t note it.

He patted him weakly on the shoulder, disappointed in him for perhaps the millionth time in his life and mumbled something about getting a drink.

     4. You can’t eat your feelings at a Black family party. So don’t try.

He dragged himself over to where a nervous, young house elf with bulbous amber eyes, was ladling frothing crimson liquid into crystal goblets. When the Black Family catered, they went for food that was so high class it was inedible. Delicacies such as harpy meat skewers, kelpie eye pudding served with plum sauce, gloopy grey paste with bulbous lumps that looked to be some sort of serpent caviar, pastries shaped like severed fingers, strange green fillets of a meat Sirius didn’t recognize (and didn’t want to) and redcap capers (capers cooked in redcap blood) were piled on top of a long elegant table, with a snake skin patterned tablecloth.

 _Regular families eat jelly and ice cream at parties- my family rings up a caterer and says; 'everything in the graveyard and check the morgue too'_ , Sirius thought, unimpressed, his stomach shriveling.

'Uh, what are you serving?' He asked the house elf queasily, scared of the answer.

'Sunny is serving Master Cygnus’ matured blood wine-' Sirius made an indistinct choking sound and clutched at the table.

'Sunny has been told to say that it is the finest red wine, made in the South of France and aged for-'

'Elf, two goblets, now.' Both Sirius and the elf jumped as if electrocuted. Sirius turned around slowly, a cornered animal, and plastered a very fake smile over his instinctual scowl.

5\. When in doubt, insult your way out.

'Narcissa, daaaaarling! How _have_ you been? Sucked the happiness out of anyone interesting lately? How have the corpse brides- I mean, your _friends_ been?” he exclaimed, false friendliness pouring out of every word.

'And I was _so_ sure that they didn’t let vermin in for health reasons,' Narcissa replied, sighing irritably, flicking her long, ice-blond hair over her shoulder and looking down her nose at Sirius. Sirius’ fake smile didn’t falter- bullet proof, the insult bounced off him.

Narcissa had obviously taken great pains with her hair that evening; it had been curled and some of it had been swept up into a tight and neat bun at the top of her head, with long tendrils left artistically loose- a tiny silver tiara was sunken into the front of the coiled hair. She was practically dripping in diamonds.

'Ouch, _vermin_ huh? Careful cousin, I’m contagious. You have _no idea_ what kind of muggle-born germs I have on me,' Sirius shot back, chuckling a little too loudly and leaning on the table so his face was inches away from hers. Mentally, he began counting to ten, slowly, a coping method Remus insisted he employ.

'They don’t make pest spells strong enough for people like you!' She countered, stumbling backwards. A real fur stole and a white wolf head handbag that, moments before could have been slobbering over its last meal, completed Narcissa’s look. Upon spotting it, Sirius’ wrinkled up stomach froze solid, but he didn’t move, however the smile slipped from his face.

'Slaughter seems to be in this year, or is it your own personal style?' Sirius gaze fell to the bag and flickered back upwards, unnerved- for a second, two glass grey eyes looked back at him, the same shade as his own.

'You’re an eyesore.' She snapped. Her voice crackled cruelly, like broken ice. She was visibly sick of talking to him.

She snatched the two goblets off the table where Sunny had carefully set them down while they fought, turned on her heel and stalked away, a hailstorm in a ball gown.

'Avoid mirrors Medusa, they might break!' Sirius yelled after her, snarling and pulling an ugly hand gesture at her back, before trying to shove his hands into his robe pockets and finding them sewn shut. Swallowing screams of frustration, he struggled out of the outer-robe, almost ripping it off his body, and threw it on the ground, as if he could rend the marble in two with the force of his wadded up clothing. Sunny stared at him, her eyes two golden full moons.

'C-can Sunny offer you a drink, young master?'

'I wouldn’t drink that swill if you forced it down my throat with a funnel, put it away!' Sirius growled, before taking a deep breath and smoothing the creases in his shirt and dress pants with shaky hands. He leaned against the food table and looked at the array of stomach turning entrees again. 'But I _will_ take some of this,” he continued, a small grin appearing on his face as he gingerly scooped up the heads of some of the redcap capers and two or three green fillets onto a tiny silver plate, where they mixed into a soupy, puke coloured slime.

6\. Get revenge wherever possible. Remember, this is the only time all the members of the most Noble House of Backwash will be in the same room at the same time.

He waved cheerily to Sunny and sauntered purposefully to the outskirts of the ballroom, holding his plate as far away from himself as he could without dropping it all together. He spotted Narcissa laughing haughtily as she sipped from her goblet with Bellatrix.

While Narcissa made Sirius spit acid, Bellatrix made him feel numb and horrified that they were actually related. And to think, five years ago he would have happily played a round of gobstones with her and even sooner than that, had at least congratulated her on her engagement, like a good little pure-blood son. He loitered around an ice sculpture of a giant coiled snake, waiting until he saw Narcissa put her death bag down on an empty chair and leave with Bellatrix- a few seconds later Sirius spotted them surrounded by distant cousins and some other pure-blood prats from school.

He walked by her bag casually and gingerly opened it- he dumped his entire plate of food into its depths, silently apologizing to the breathing animal it used to be.

After a pause, he added the plate for good luck.

7\. In firewhiskey we trust.

 _There is no way I can handle the rest of the night sober, damn it why did I say no to the wine_ , Sirius thought grimly as he slipped past his father, who was chatting merrily about stamping out werewolves with some uncle and Regulus, who looked mightily uncomfortable. Sirius shot his brother a scorching glare and made a mental note to trip him on the dance floor later in the evening.

He glimpsed his Uncle Alfie having a very animated discussion with a marble pillar near the food table and made a beeline for him.

Uncle Alphard was made up entirely of blubber and wishes- his hairy stomach and belly button poked out from under his violently purple waistcoat and his pudgy fingers were full of chunky gold rings, with the black family motto carved into every one. He was hugging a bottle of mead to his chest like it was a new born baby and his nose looked a bit like a grapefruit with a pair of tiny gold rimmed glasses perched precariously on the end, so small in comparison, that they were basically an accessorized afterthought.

He was an untrustworthy, perverted, oily looking, sneak thief, who was so often drunk he spoke mostly in hiccups.

But he was also Sirius’s kind of rotter; harmless, stupid and rich.

'Uncle! How have you been old man?' Sirius proclaimed, slapping his uncle hard on the shoulder and smiling so big he thought his face would freeze that way.

8\. Fake it till you make it.

'AH Reggie-'

'No, try again Uncle.'

'Aren’t you Regulus-'

The comparison so annoyed Sirius that his freaky frozen grin inverted itself in less than 0.2 seconds.

'Alright! Alright! Gimme a chance lad, I’ll get it eventually,' guffawed Uncle Alfie, wobbling like jelly, his cheeks shiny and red like a Christmas tree bauble.

Sirius sighed testily but quickly rearranged his features so that they were soft and pleasant and friendly, because damn it, he wanted his uncle to dish out the whiskey before he put his foot through a nearby ice sculpture. He knew the old codger had a stash hidden in his fat folds.

'I’m the only nephew who hasn’t tried to poison you yet.' Sirius reminded him with yet another high-pitched laugh, which he hoped, wildly, sounded nonchalant. _Although I don’t know why they bothered, the man is two drinks away from liver failure,_ Sirius thought.

'SIRIUS MY BOY! I CAN’T BELIEVE I DIDN’T RECOGNISE YOU! I must have had a touch too much to drink!' Uncle Alfie cried, gesturing so exuberantly he almost fell over backwards into the punch bowl- if it wasn’t for Sirius grabbing a fistful of his frilly shirt, he’d have lemon wedges up his nose.

'Uncle, I think you’ve had a touch _more_ than a touch too much- you were having a conversation with the pillar just a moment ago,' Sirius said, grinning for real this time and laughing as he dusted off his perpetually tipsy uncle.

'Yes! Yes! And you know what it told me? That nOooOoOOOooone of your cousins are getting a single knut, not a single knuuuut of my fortune, it’s allll going to be yours because _you_ -' his poked Sirius unsteadily in the chest, 'don’t try to kill me for inheritance, that’s right, you’re special, you _like_ my stories.'

Sirius nodded sincerely. 'It’s true. The one about your spitting teapot always brings a tear to my eye, uncle. And the one about the gnome wedding in your underwear drawer? Those gnomes made me believe in true love, they really did- now, where’s the firewhiskey old man, I’m going to outdrink you if it kills me-'

A blood chilling screech from the other side of the ballroom interrupted him. 'WHO PUT THIS-THIS _FISH HEAD_ IN MY PURSE? OHHHHH EW EW EW EW EWwwwWWwWww.'

'-which it will, hopefully before Narcissa gets to me.'

 

 


End file.
